


Trust Fall

by magisterpavus



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Body Worship, But also, Drama & Romance, Enemies to Lovers, Feelings Realization, Fight Sex, Forbidden Love, Friends With Benefits, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Fantasy, kind of?? theyre bad at even admitting friendship feelings because, mostly just keith admiring shiro's tiddies tbh, unclear if they were ever enemies or just snarky and furiously pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:14:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23833702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterpavus/pseuds/magisterpavus
Summary: The Blade of Marmora and The Black Lion are rival assassins guilds. If one guild gets in the other's way, the solution is simple: kill the enemy, and finish the job.Unfortunately, things have never been quite that simple with Shiro and Keith.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 425





	Trust Fall

**Author's Note:**

> this is for the lovely Maya, thank you for this super fun prompt!! sheith and assassins go very well together, and of course I had to make it a semi-historical au because I admit to thinking too much about Assassins Creed, and knife fights, and Shiro & Keith wearing those flowy white linen tunics that are almost totally see-through. HISTORICAL ACCURACY. enjoy!
> 
> [follow me on twitter @saltyshiro for more sheith!](https://twitter.com/saltyshiro)

The rooftop is quiet save for the low sigh of the night wind as Keith creeps across it, blade in hand, each step soundless and each movement calculated. The target is asleep in his bed, and from the edge of the roof, all that lies between him and the nasty end of Keith’s blade is a short drop and a foolishly half-open window. 

The job was very clear that the mark of an assassin should be obvious – this job is meant to frighten and intimidate, not to stay hidden in the shadows, which means Keith doesn’t have to worry too much about being clean. Truthfully, from what he knows of the guy, he doesn’t deserve the swift death of a blade to the heart. A cut throat, then, might be more appropriate. 

Assassins aren’t supposed to make these kinds of judgments, but Keith keeps them to himself. He’s good at his job, and that’s all that matters.

There’s someone else on the rooftop, right behind him.

Keith whirls, sinking into a defensive crouch with his blade held steady as the shadow steps out from behind the chimney. He’s as quiet as Keith, but bigger, so much so that it seems impossible he should be as silent as he is. His own blade glints in his gloved hand – its hilt is ebony, and though his fingers cover it, Keith knows it’s carved into the shape of a lion’s head. 

The shadow steps halfway into the wash of faint moonlight – it’s a half-moon tonight, barely enough to see him by. Keith’s breath catches, though really, he should have expected this. Slowly, he rises, and does not lower his blade. 

“Been a while.”

Keith narrows his eyes. “Has it? Almost sounds like you missed me.”

A soft chuckle answers him, and Keith isn’t proud of it, but he shivers. “Would that be so bad?”

“You’re stalling,” Keith retorts. “I was here first. Get lost.”

“Now, now. You know that’s not how this works, Keith.”

Keith frowns at him. “Don’t make me push you off the roof, Shiro.”

Shiro clicks his tongue, and steps fully into the moonlight. Keith struggles to control his face – it  _ has _ been a while. A long while. And Shiro is as beautiful as he was the last time they met, though he has a new scar – a long slice across the bridge of his nose. Keith’s free hand curls into a fist.  _ Who dared to lay a finger on you? _ he wants to ask.  _ And where can I find them? _

“You wouldn’t,” Shiro says, calm with just the slightest hint of cheek. “We could always work together.”

“You know that’s not how this works,” Keith mocks, edging towards the edge of the roof and the windowsill. If he can manage to get into the target’s room, Shiro will be reluctant to follow him, for fear of making a commotion and ruining the whole job. Or maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe The Black Lion just sent Shiro to mess with him – maybe they know. Keith’s gut twists. Maybe Shiro told them. 

“You look pale,” Shiro remarks, tilting his head, taking another step closer. His body language is relaxed, but there’s no mistaking the malice in the gesture. Keith is silent, studying him.

His knife is long and sharp – the Lion favors thin stilettos, subtler and more to the point than the Blade of Marmora’s curved, ornate peshkabz. Yet another difference between them. The Lions do not consider their blades sacred; Shiro probably has four or five identical to the one he wields now. 

The very idea is baffling to Keith. His blade is an extension of himself, the tool of his trade. Without it, without the Blades, he would be just another street urchin, cowering and hungry in the shadows. Now he wears black silk and fine boots, and his belly is always full, and if the cost of that is a little blood on his hands – well, it’s a fair trade. 

He wonders what life Shiro ran from to live this one. Nobody just becomes an assassin when they’re doing fine. But these are things Keith is resigned to never knowing. He shouldn’t even know Shiro’s name. Again, apprehension prickles through him – that he trusted Shiro too much the last time, that he finally decided their game is too risky. It is, of course. There’s no question about that.

Keith is hyper-aware that two steps behind him lies empty air. He’ll have to be quick if he wants to make this in time. “I’m not here to talk, Shiro.”

Shiro hums, sidling closer. “No? Straight to business, then.” 

When he moves, Keith isn’t expecting it, and that’s his first mistake. Damn Shiro for being so distracting. Keith tries to dart out of the way, but Shiro’s lunge knocks him off-balance, and he stumbles dangerously at the roof’s edge, boots scrabbling at the shingles. It’s far too loud, and for a moment they both freeze – then Shiro leaps again, making a grab for Keith’s collar, intending to yank him away from the edge. 

Keith growls out a curse, kicking at him, and Shiro is forced to retreat or risk a busted shin. “Just let me do my job,” Keith hisses, ducking and rolling out of the way as Shiro comes at him with his fist, which Keith has learned the hard way is made of solid steel. 

“I could say the same of you,” Shiro counters, his blade whistling through the air as Keith makes for the edge once more. Keith’s heart pounds. He can’t remember if Shiro’s ever used his blade against Keith before, since their first meeting. Would Shiro truly kill him? Lions and Blades kill each other all the time. That’s just what happens with rival assassins guilds. But Shiro –

No. Keith stops himself. Why is Shiro different? He shouldn’t be; Keith knows that. But he hesitates when he even thinks of killing Shiro, much less tries to do it. Assassins don’t grieve their victims, or those who get in their way and get what’s coming to them. But killing Shiro would feel like a loss.

Keith slips on a loose shingle as Shiro leaps again for him, and this time, Keith falls, barely managing to grab onto the edge of the roof, his fingers scrabbling desperately at the smooth shingles. He curses, and when Shiro looms over him, kneeling at the edge of the roof and peering down at him, Keith fully expects to be pushed to his death. 

Instead, Shiro grabs his wrist and hauls him up, until they’re eye to eye, Keith’s body still dangling off the edge of the roof, with Shiro’s hand now as his only lifeline. “You need to be more careful,” Shiro informs him. 

Keith tries and fails to not cling to Shiro’s wrist, his fingers digging ivory half-moons into Shiro’s skin. “I – I will, I will –”

Shiro regards him, his expression inscrutable. “Promise.”

Keith swallows. He has no idea what’s happening, here. “I – I promise to be more careful?”

Shiro smiles, and Keith  _ knows _ that smile. It’s not a good one. “Good,” Shiro says simply, and lets go. 

Keith falls three stories, barely managing not to scream, some small part of him still insisting  _ It would ruin the job!  _ He braces himself for the sick crack of the hard cobblestones below – but instead, he lands with a dull thud in a wagon full of straw, and his last thought before he conks his head on the bottom of the wagon is that Shiro let him fall somewhere safe.

*

Keith opens his eyes with a groan, groggy and disoriented. The ceiling above him is unfamiliar, as is the bed below him. He cautiously turns his head on the pillow, wariness growing when he realizes his blade is no longer at his side – his belt has been removed, as has his cloak, leaving him feeling awfully exposed in his loose white tunic and worn breeches. 

Keith blinks again, the room coming fully into focus, and he goes still at the sight of Shiro calmly eating supper at the small table in the room. They must be at an inn. Shiro knocks back his tankard of ale, raises an eyebrow at Keith over the rim, and points to his plate. “Biscuit?”

Slowly, Keith sits up, gaze settling on his blade, which is neatly placed atop his folded cloak with his belt on the chair opposite Shiro. He swallows, and rubs his bruised head ruefully. “I’m not hungry.”

Shiro sets down his ale and leans back in his chair. “Suit yourself. How’s your head feeling?”

“It’s not split open, so that’s good,” Keith mutters, avoiding his gaze. Again, he isn't sure what’s happening here. This has definitely never happened – alone in an inn room with Shiro? What was he thinking? This is not allowed. None of this is allowed. But Shiro is perfectly at ease, and this only serves to unnerve Keith further.

“No, we wouldn’t want that,” Shiro agrees, and then reaches into his coat. Keith tenses, eyes darting again to his blade, but Shiro just tosses something at him. Keith blinks stupidly at it. It’s...a gold signet ring, with the target’s family crest, a blooming rose, engraved upon it. It was the item he needed to prove he had finished the job. Keith stares at Shiro. Shiro shrugs. “I found the job description in your pocket. Figured you might want that.”

“But,” Keith starts, looking from the ring to Shiro, “but, you –”

Shiro holds up another piece of jewelry, a ruby necklace. “I got mine, don’t worry.”

“But we can’t  _ both  _ take credit for the murder!” Keith stammers. 

“Can’t we?” Shiro carefully tucks the necklace back into his pocket. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

Keith is silent, disbelieving and bewildered. Then he slumps back against the headboard and mutters, “You could have just told me your plan instead of dropping me off the roof.”

“Hey, I knew you would land somewhere soft...enough.” Shiro smirks. Keith glowers at him, but his irritation is to cover up his lingering fear and uncertainty. What is this? What is Shiro doing? They get each other off in back alleys, drunk, not – this.

Not that those nights in alleys hadn’t been some of the best nights in recent memory...or ever, if he’s being honest. But that’s not something he wants to be honest about. 

“Hey.” Shiro stands, and Keith is ashamed at himself for shrinking back. Shiro pauses, an expression flickering across his face – hurt, Keith realizes. Shiro’s brow furrows. “I’m sorry you got hurt,” he offers. “Let me make it up to you?”

“What,” Keith says flatly, and then, squeaked out when Shiro sits on the edge of the bed and leans over him with a gleam in his eye, “Shiro, what the hell are you – doing…” He trails off, breathless, as Shiro’s right hand lands on his upper thigh and squeezes. The metal is cold even through his velvet gloves. 

“Trust me,” Shiro replies, and of all the things he could have said, there’s nothing more absurd than those two words. Assassins don’t trust anyone, and especially not each other. 

So then, why is Keith letting Shiro move between his half-spread legs, settling on the end of the bed and peering down at him with a small smile? Why is he letting Shiro unbutton his breeches and slide up the hem of his tunic to smooth his gloved hand over Keith’s taut stomach, slow and sweet like he’s savoring the touch? Why does that single touch make Keith sigh, and Shiro smile knowingly before guiding Keith to lay down – and why does Keith lay down for him?

Shiro kneels down, pulling the last of the buttons free and humming as he rubs Keith’s cock through thin cotton, seeming to enjoy watching it harden and thicken – or maybe he just enjoys watching Keith squirm at the teasing. Keith refuses to look away from him for even a moment – like hell is he gonna trust Shiro – but this proves to be easier said than done, especially when Shiro finally draws his cock out and runs his tongue slow and hot over the crown, then down the flushed length, taking his time getting everything wet. 

Keith’s fingers tighten in the sheets, his breath shallowing. Shiro doesn’t look up at him, but chuckles, closing his lips around just the tip, eyes half-lidded as he sucks gently, utterly unhurried, nothing like the other times they’ve done this.

Oh, no, Keith cannot think about the other times they’ve done this, not right now. He absolutely cannot imagine how Shiro looked, kneeling in that filthy alley, a smear of blood still bright on his cheek, his lips stretched around Keith’s cock as Keith fisted a hand into his hair and forced himself deeper, until Shiro choked, but neither of them yielded each other a single inch. 

He can’t think of how Shiro’s throat worked around his cock, nor of how, at a certain point, Shiro went limp in his grasp, finally opening up to it, his lashes fluttering, making soft, overwhelmed little noises before coming in his pants, untouched. Keith won’t let himself remember how that was more than enough to make him come, too, hissing and tugging Shiro off just in time to paint his chin and mouth with white. 

Keith lets out a low, wounded sound and pushes Shiro’s head away, trembling. “Stop it.”

Shiro blinks at him. “Keith? Are you –”

“Don’t ask if I’m alright,” Keith snaps, sitting up and fixing him with a glare. Shiro sits up, too, frowning now. “You never asked me if I was alright when you were bouncing me on your cock and choking me on the last rooftop we met on.”

Shiro’s frown deepens. “You seemed alright to me. You came twice and begged me not to stop.”

Keith scowls. “...That’s not the point. And I didn’t beg.”

Shiro’s eyebrows go up. “Fine,” he says, thankfully not pursuing that line of thought, because admittedly what Keith did could not possibly be described as anything other than begging, “then what’s the point? Enlighten me. Because _ I  _ thought the point was to suck your cock.”

His frown looks more like a pout. A very cute pout. Shiro is tipsy and he wants, badly, to suck Keith’s cock. Why are they still talking, here?

Oh, right. Because they’re members of rival assassins guilds that are expressly forbidden from doing shit like this. Keith’s jaw works. “Really? Is that why you let me live, got proof of assassination for me, and bought a damn inn room?”

Shiro’s gaze flickers. He draws back. “Would you prefer that I left you in the hay wagon?” He says it lightly, but the hurt from before returns to his expression, and the worst part is, Keith feels hurt just seeing it there. He shouldn’t care at all about what Shiro feels.

“Why didn’t you?” Keith retorts. “You’re a Lion, you should have just taken credit for it and left me to die.”

Shiro exhales, a heaviness in the slow slump of his shoulders. “Maybe I should have, yes. But I couldn’t.”

Somehow, Keith is shocked by the admission. He stares at Shiro, heart pounding. Shiro holds his gaze for a few moments, then sighs and looks away, starting to get off the bed. His expression is utterly crestfallen. For a fearsome assassin of the night, he looks an awful lot like a kicked puppy. Keith panics. “Wait,” he says, “Shiro, don’t...don’t go.”

Shiro pauses, glancing at him and shaking his head. “First it was ‘Shiro stop,’ now it’s ‘Shiro stay’...which is it, Keith?”

“What do you want from me?” Keith whispers. “Is this – is this some kind of test? I’m loyal to the Blade, loyal to the death, and no one can change that, not – not even you –”

Shiro opens his mouth, closes it. “Keith,” he says, slow, hesitant, like he isn’t sure he ought to say it, “this isn’t about that, about work, about the Lion or the Blades or – any of that.”

“Then what is it about?” Keith pleads, softly.

“You,” Shiro murmurs, “and me.”

Keith is quiet. “Oh,” he whispers. “Really?”

Shiro looks at him steadily. “Keith,” he murmurs, “if you were anyone else, I would have thrown you off the roof to die without hesitation. But I didn’t. Why is that?”

Shiro is leaning down towards him again. Keith wets his lips. “Because you’re not a dick?”

Shiro scrunches up his nose. “Oh, I’d say I’m a bit of a dick.”

“That’s okay,” Keith whispers. He and Shiro are now chest to chest, and it makes it very hard to think. “I...I wouldn’t have thrown you off the roof, either.”

Shiro’s lips quirk. “Why not?” His gaze drifts down to Keith’s mouth. 

“I don’t want to lose you,” Keith admits. He isn’t sure he means to say it, but there’s no taking it back, now. Shiro’s eyes widen. Then he kisses Keith, hard, with the sting of teeth Keith’s missed so much, and the slow slide of his tongue that Keith’s missed even more. He never liked kissing much before he started kissing Shiro, and that thought is enough to jerk him out of it, panting. Shiro hovers over him, their bodies tangled, the hard press of Shiro’s body too real, too perfect. “We shouldn’t,” Keith gasps, “if the guilds found out –”

Shiro’s eyes are dark and hungry. “The guilds don’t say anything about what we’re doing being wrong,” he retorts.

Keith’s stomach somersaults. The guilds explicitly forbid emotional attachment or relationships, friendly or otherwise, between the Blades and the Lions. “What are we doing, then?” he whispers.

He braces himself to be kissed into silence again, which he wouldn’t mind, but instead Shiro whispers back, “Something I don’t want to lose.”

For a moment, they just stare at each other. Then, as is often the case with the two of them, they lunge for each other, Keith’s fingers digging into Shiro’s shoulders, shaping thick biceps and shoving impatiently at his cloak. 

The fact still remains that this is a bad idea, but really, it’s _ been _ a bad idea, and that’s never stopped them. How long has this – this thing gone on, between them? One year? Two? Keith doesn’t remember, or maybe doesn’t  _ want _ to remember, because that would make it too real. They aren’t lovers. They aren’t even friends.

Or maybe that’s just what he’s been telling himself to justify continuing whatever this is.

Truthfully, Keith doesn’t want to dwell on the semantics of it when Shiro is half-ripping open his shirt to tease at Keith’s nipples with an eager tongue and merciless teeth, biting at the meat of Keith’s chest and soothing it with an innocent kiss when Keith hisses and bucks under him, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Shiro’s pants and yanking Shiro’s hips flush against his own. They’re both hard; Keith’s cock is still out and fills out again quickly with the friction of Shiro’s belt and the promising rub of a thick, muscled thigh; thick enough, Keith thinks, for him to ride if he wanted to. 

God, he wants that. He wants so many things with Shiro he can’t bear to name them all, but some fall from his tongue anyway, and Shiro groans above him, biting bruises into Keith’s throat before pulling away to finally, finally unpin his cloak and unlace his shirt, the whole mess tossed away to bare his chest to Keith’s greedy gaze. 

There are a lot of things about Shiro that Keith likes, but his chest is up there. Keith growls at the sight of plump muscles, peaked brown nipples that practically demand to be kissed, and his spreading, rosy blush across it all, and wonders – not for the first time – if he’s the only one Shiro lets see him like this. The obvious answer is  _ no, absolutely not, have you seen this man,  _ but that’s not an answer Keith likes. 

When Keith pounces on him, Shiro takes it gracefully, letting out a soft ‘oof,’ and falling back onto the bed with a bounce. Keith straddles him, unable to stop himself from rutting his hard cock against the dark hair trailing irresistibly downwards, and wasting no time in getting Shiro’s pants open and cock out. 

Shiro looks like he’s about to make a snarky comment, then gives up with a moan, head falling back as Keith spits into his palm, wraps a hand around both of their cocks, and rolls his hips, the initial stroke almost too much for both of them. Shiro’s sensitive, his cock fat and already dripping in Keith’s tight fist, and it makes Keith think – makes him hope – that the last time he did this really was with Keith. 

Keith wants to fuck him, wants to spread Shiro open on his fingers until he’s crying with the pleasure of it, until he’s the one who’s begging for Keith to make him come. He wants to hold Shiro close to him and leave marks high on his throat, where anyone could see them; he wants to kiss Shiro breathless and feel the moment he pulses and tightens around his cock in helpless, glorious climax.

Keith wants Shiro to fuck him, wants to ride his cock again, properly this time – on the rooftop, they were rushed and desperate and drunk off of cheap beer and the adrenaline of the kill, and Shiro barely prepped him, because Keith threatened to leave if he did, and Keith could barely walk the next day, and he’ll never admit it, but he didn’t clean himself off right away. 

Shiro left him with scratches and bruises all over his hips and come dripping down his thighs and Keith – liked it. He wonders, now, if Shiro did it on purpose – if he wanted Keith to remember him, if he thought, when Keith bit his neck and came in a long, hot shudder, that that was going to be the last time. 

This isn’t going to be the last time. No fucking way. 

Keith strokes their cocks tighter, faster, fascinated at how much Shiro is leaking, how slick the slide of his fist is without any oil, just them, just their want, sticky between them. Shiro writhes under him, his hands holding fast to Keith’s waist, thumbs rubbing at his hipbones, fingers digging into the curve of his ass with a promise for later. For now, neither of them are going to last. Keith’s still on edge from Shiro’s mouth, and Shiro is a mess, flushed cheeks and parted lips shiny with spit. 

It doesn’t take long at all for Keith to falter, hips stuttering and cock swelling, spilling, splattering across Shiro’s belly, a few wet smears reaching so far as his jaw. Shiro just groans, eyes half-lidded, tongue swiping out to lick some away, and then Keith feels the slow ripple of Shiro’s body under him, tension giving way to release. His cock spurts, pressed to Keith’s, and they both swear, low and overwhelmed, Keith half-crushing Shiro to the bed, Shiro’s right arm wrapping securely around Keith’s waist, keeping him right there.

It feels like it lasts a long time. Keith leans his forehead into Shiro’s shoulder, just breathing, aware of the _ thudthudthud  _ of Shiro’s heart against his own. When Keith lifts his head to kiss the new scar over Shiro’s nose, Shiro shivers, but says nothing, his arm tightening around Keith. 

When the mess on them both begins to cool, they both sigh, Shiro’s grip loosening as Keith rolls off of him, laying beside him and blinking at the rise and fall of Shiro’s chest. Keith doesn’t think when he reaches out to cup Shiro’s pectoral in his hand, just kind of holding it, and Shiro snorts, eyes darting to him. “You like those, huh?” he murmurs.

In reply, Keith nestles against his side, and squeezes his chest, just a little. “Mmm.”

Shiro seems content with that, and closes his eyes, just like that, like it’s easy. Keith peers at him in disbelief.  _ Trust me,  _ Shiro said. Keith had thought the idea was impossible, but he never stopped to consider that maybe, just maybe, Shiro already trusted him. 

“Shiro?” Keith whispers, replacing his hand with his head, pillowing it on Shiro’s chest so he can once more hear Shiro’s steady, comforting heartbeat. 

Shiro shifts under him, but only to wrap his arm around Keith’s shoulders. “Hmm?” 

“You aren’t going to lose me.”

Shiro keeps his eyes closed. He’s smiling, just a little. Keith knows that smile. It’s a good one.

**Author's Note:**

> please know they do get their shit together and probably pull a romeo and juliet situation except neither of them dies because why would I do that to them, the assassins guilds grudgingly admit their rivalry was stupid but also mutually beg shiro & keith to stop claiming double-kills for jobs that one of them CLEARLY DID THEMSELVES -


End file.
